


Iron and Ink

by theskyeskye



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of Bianca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskyeskye/pseuds/theskyeskye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of things that may or may not have happened between Varric and Iron Bull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Varric's only got so much self control and when that hand is big enough to wrap around his throat and pin him to his sheets like he's nothing he's able to close is eyes, let the air leave his lungs, and forget all about the woman who haunts his dreams and makes his skin burn. He gives himself willingly to temptation and lets Bull in. He lets him press past his walls, through his barriers, and between his legs. The smell of iron and sweat is heavy in the air; Varric breathes deep like he's never properly breathed before. Inhale-- this moment, this pleasure/pain, this beast. Exhale-- her smile, the way she laughs at him, the look in her eyes when he tells her it's all fine. 

Everything is  **fine**.

He's always been like this, deep down, he knew he was a pushover, a man full of shame, full of doubt, full of  _submission_. He's on fire from head to toe and his hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his face and shoulders. Bull didn't protest, he didn't question, he just slid callous fingers down between Varric's thighs and parted them. He didn't think less of the dwarf, Varric could see something akin to affection in the Qunari's eye, but he didn't think too long on it. 

He went where guided, sucking hot flesh and swallowing around thick muscle, letting himself be choked and gagged and fucked and used. But really, who was using who? Varric looked up at Bull, spit sliding down his stubbled chin and he knew just where they stood. 

Bull wasn't doing him a favor, he wasn't just opening himself up to be a port in a storm. This was more than that but less than that. Were they friends? They definitely weren't lovers.

" _How's that feel?_ "

The words rumble against his forehead as thrusts, curling Varric up on himself, compressing him and splitting him open. Varric's panting as that grip on his throat slides up to his jaw, prying it open as he moans something incoherent, something base, something not at all in the common tongue. They don't quite kiss, so much as bite at each other's lips, their skin striking loud, wet, perverse, the whole of Skyhold must have heard his cry. It was sweet, beautiful agony.

Deep, rumbling laughter sends a jolt of vibrating pleasure through Varric's taut frame. Bull has his answer, he knows what Varric's looking for, he knows what the dwarf wants and what he needs. He'll give him a little of both. Varric tosses his head back into soft sheets, his throat flexing around panting moans and soft whimpers. He hasn't let himself go in far too long. His body had been crying out for this, wailing for touch, for contact, and he quietly denied himself the most basic of pleasures. Who would want an emotionally unavailable dwarf darkening their bedpost after all. But after  _seeing_  her, after being within breathing distance of the twisting thorn in his side, he needed it. He wanted any trace of her toxicity **fucked**  out of him.

He knew he was just as bad for her, he was selfish, he was a fool, he was in love, he was full of hate, he was spreading himself wider still to let more in. 

" **Don't stop.** "

He's so small and breakable in comparison to this behemoth, and Varric thrives on that feeling. The Bull could crush him but he's holding back, applying pressure _just so_. There's something exhilirating about Bull's restraint, his willingness to stray as close to the edge of injuring Varric as the dwarf begs him to go. He strokes a hand over Varric's heaving chest, and Varric revels in the way it feels to have his nipples pinched and twisted again, the way it feels to have fingers twirling through the hair along his body, winding down between his legs to grip him tight and pull more noise and more poison from his body.

Varric's jaw is sore, he can still taste the Qunari on his lips, and his hands claw at hardened muscle, no regard for the lines of red he left behind with his blunt nails on the Bull's skin. The Bull doesn't seem to mind, on the contrary, he seems encouraged by it, as if Varric were digging his heels in to spur him on, faster, harder, steadier. He was galloping for the dwarf, strained for breath as if he were on the battlefield again. 

In a way, this was Varric's battlefield. His body, his heart, his soul, were all things he fought for. Varric's blood is pulsing through his veins like fire, his cock is throbbing and aching, he can feel that perfect climax pooling in his pelvis like a hook behind his stomach, pulling him down and down and down. With Bull inside him his body is so full to bursting there's no room for anything else. Nothing and no one can stay when he is filled to the brim. 

" _Need me to slow down?_ " 

Concern and amusement mingled in Bull's voice, Varric grinned crookedly at the sound of it. He must have looked a mess, the way he was shaking underneath the Bull, his skin flushed and sweaty, his shaft red and rubbing against Bull's stomach with every thrust. He shook his head emphatically, his length straining, fluid leaking from him, begging for more friction, more touch, more, _more,_ **_more_** \-- 

He's sore, all over, the strain of his muscles, how his legs have stretched, his back has bent, his arms have reached, it left him feeling so pleasantly strung out; he'd be feeling this for weeks. The dull ache of it would stick with him as he walked later on. He'd stand and feel like falling. Weeks was just enough time to decide if he wanted it again, if he could get it again, like a drug, he was looking already toward the next hit. 

" **Harder**." 

Varric's voice was just a husky growl, leaving him like gravel tumbling down a cliff face. There was a moment of hesitation, a falter in their pace, Varric's gaze met Bull's and an unspoken plea passed between them. He was desperation personified-- red faced, sweat dampened, bleary eyed desperation.

_The only way to **rebuild** , was to be  **broken**_.


	2. An Orlesian Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a kiss. A very steamy, Orlesian kiss.

Varric’s feeling particularly raw tonight, his nerves are frayed, his body is sore, his eyes falling half mast. Bull’s hand is at his back, helping him stay upright as they trek from the tavern back to Varric’s room. It’s not a long walk but it feels long. It feels like the road stretches on for an eternity and everything passes in a blur.

He’s tired, but not drunk. Bull still helps him to bed and the moment Varric’s back hits the sheets he grabs at Bull’s shoulders, his neck, his anything, pulling him desperately closer.

Bull doesn’t resist; he never did.

"Wait," Varric says, and what he means is ‘Stay’ as his lips seek out Bull’s own. He kisses him with the sort of fervor a younger man might show. He’s clumsily parting his lips and begging for tongue, for teeth, for the sort of affection that’s just sloppy enough to remind him this isn’t just another fucked up dream or twisted mistake. 

The first time he kissed Bull he felt guilty. This time, he feels peaceful.

And maybe just a little aroused.


	3. Words Words Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Bull having a chat.

It’s as easy as breathing, or maybe even easier than that. Varric lets his guard down around Bull, because he’s just… 

"There isn’t a word in any language I know for you, Tiny," Varric observes, grinning at him from where he’s seated on Bull’s lap. Bull is leaned lazily up against the headboard, Varric’s legs just barely fitting around his waist, but it’s comfortable. It’s right. They’re both at ease, down to their breeches, sharing a bottle of the good stuff while talking endlessly about everything. 

**Did you know bees see colors we cant? Sera told me that…**

_I’ve never been to Kirkwall, but the Hanged Man sounds like my kinda place…_

**I swear, she had her ankles behind her head, it was disturbing, but I couldn’t look away** …

_Do any dwarves still speak the old tongue? It’s such a spitty language_ …

**I’ve always found the life of a bard to be less than glamorous but still so appealing** …

Their hands clumsily find each other as they roughly play, their conversation devolving quickly. Varric’s no match for Bull but he always gives him a run for his money. Bull curses Varric’s low center of gravity in a growl as he bites into the flesh of the dwarf’s shoulder, still playful, still as easy as inhale, exhale.

“ **You know, someday I’m going to have to tell this story,** " Varric says, his laughter coming out as a pant and a groan while Bull’s hands stray.

“ _Well I better make sure you’ve got plenty of good material._ ”


	4. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull tries to quiet Varric's busy mind.

He feels the warmth of Bull’s breath at the nape of his neck and the weight of his torso along the width of his back. There’s a strong grip curling around his hand as they lay there in silence. It’s been hours since Varric last moved, his body tired and burns still healing. He doesn’t mind the way Bull’s body presses against his wrapped wounds or how he nuzzles the back of his neck. No one is looking for them right now, and Varric intends to enjoy that for a while longer.

There wasn’t a need for secrecy, but somehow it felt better this way. Their moments were for them alone, and discretion kept it that way. Varric was surprised that with the way the pair of them oh so loved to brag they’d been able to keep quiet this long.

"You’re thinking," Bull points out, and Varric realizes he must have been making that face again. Bull had pointed out one day that he often wrinkled his nose and chewed his lower lip when he was lost in thought.

"I am," Varric admits, hiding a soft smile in the pillows beneath them when Bull sighs across his neck. 

"You’re going to strain yourself. Or worse, your face will get stuck that way," Bull warns and Varric is smothering soft laughter. The feeling of Bull’s fingers wrapped around his own as they laid in bed, piled close together, breathing one another’s air, their scent, it put him at ease. 

"Sounds like if my face did get stuck you wouldn’t want me anymore. I’m hurt, Bull. What if I get horribly disfigured the next time we fight a giant or something?" Varric fingers thread with Bull’s gripping tight as he pulls the Qunari over him more, letting the weight of him press air out of his lungs and shield him from the soft chill in the air. He’s so small in comparison, it’s an unusual feeling but he doesn’t dislike it. He finds it freeing, in a way. 

"Oh please. Getting disfigured in battle is completely different and you know it. Battle scars are hot. Scrunch face? Not so much," the way Bull speaks with such conviction, so very matter of fact, it makes Varric laugh again, this time a little freer, a little louder. 

"Well then, I hope it won’t disappoint you too much to hear I’m trying to avoid such disfigurements. I like my face the way it is, and Maker forbid anything happen to this gorgeous chest of mine, I mean honestly where would the world be— uhmph!"

Bull silences him by going deadweight, a long, drawn out sigh leaving his lips as if he’s grown bored of Varric’s rambling, but they both know that’s not the case. Bull’s arm snakes beneath them and under Varric’s stomach, holding him close as he rolls them back over, onto their sides and then, with one firm push, he has Varric on his back so he can gaze down at him from a propped up elbow. 

The dim light of early morning is barely breaking through the curtains but Varric likes to watch the way Bull looks him over, the way his gaze catches each faint scar, most from his time in Kirkwall fighting Qunari, oddly enough. 

Bull’s strong fingers are so gentle as they stroke down his chest, idly fascinated with the gold rings that adorned it. He could stay like this forever, he thought to himself, in this quietness, away from everyone and everything. 

"The world would be a bit darker, yes," Bull says at length, and Varric can’t stop the way his heart beats just a little faster in his chest. He reaches up and pulls Bull down, hoping to kiss that sentiment off Bull’s lips.


	5. A Gentle Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very gentle kiss.

Varric’s lips curl in a devious smile as his hands stray over Bull’s chest and downward further. He watches with rapt fascination as Bull tries to catch his breath. He’s flushed, his eye shut, body heavy against the bed. Varric is sore and for the moment, sated. But only for the moment. 

He touches Bull, strokes over him, over sensitive flesh twitching in response, and he knows how much it drives his friend mad. He’s tired, recovering, aching, sweating, and Varric has to bite his tongue to stifle a laugh.

Bull mutters something about Varric’s insatiable lust and dwarven stamina, but Varric isn’t listening. He’s leaning closer, pressing in gently, touch light and insistent as he stretches his head toward Bull’s for a kiss.

He waits for Bull to open his eye before he nudges his nose against Bull’s cheek and then his lips bump idly, almost clumsily over Bull’s, a teasing hint at a kiss— he pulls away the moment Bull starts to lean up for more and laughs at the disgruntled noise he gets in response.

Bull accuses him of teasing, and he accuses fairly enough. 

"Come on, Tiny. Don’t act like this isn’t your favorite part."


	6. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just the beginning of a long evening.

Varric has been staring all night. He’s watched Bull from the other side of the fire, surrounded by their company, a mixture of Inquisition and Chargers alike. The stories that were passed around were nothing short of raucous and raunchy, not that Varric minded. He joined in, wholeheartedly. He told a tale of an elven bard he’d taken to bed in Kirkwall, the way she’d made these funny little snorting noises when he licked between her legs, how he couldn’t take her seriously. 

Bull always had one better. He was always telling the next greatest thing, and Varric didn’t complain. He listened and watched as Bull got up and spoke of an occasion when he was taking some tavern girl in a larder. He watched the way Bull mimed his own thrusts, hands gripping invisible hips, and he couldn’t help the way his breath came a little quicker.

He watched and found it so difficult to keep himself steady. He couldn’t let them see how badly he wanted those hands on his hips. Bull knew. Of course he knew. This wasn’t their first round in the Hinterlands, and it wouldn’t be their last. There was a seemingly never ending stream of problems coming from here, but it didn’t seem so bad when they had nights like this. 

Bull wandered off from the camp as others turned in for the night and Varric followed. He caught up with Bull just out of ear shot of the others and grabbed at the leather band around Bull’s waist. He pushed, with no small display of strength, and used all his force to take the Bull down. 

He knew that Bull let him; there was a willingness to surrender and Varric reveled in it. He pounced, laughing, growling, letting those strong arms catch him around his waist as they rolled in the grass. Varric grabbed at one of Bull’s horns and pulled him down, pulled him close, and crushed their mouths together. He knew he couldn’t let Bull take him tonight, but that didn’t stop the want-to from boiling up inside him, ready to spill over. His lips parted and he kissed, all soft moans, coupled with fervent sucking and biting. He held Bull there, chest to chest against the ground, still warm from the suns rays, with one hand firmly grasping Bull’s horn. He used it as leverage, he used it to stop him from taking a breath. 

He pulled him this way and that, tilting his head where he wanted it to go, where he wanted to be kissed. Varric’s teeth and tongue found the Bull’s neck, he bruised but not viciously. Slowly, attentive to every noise and movement bull made. When he tried to move away, when he tried to seek Varric’s lips again, his grip steadied against the rough protrusion beneath his fingers.

He loved the way Bull grunted and grumbled, though didn’t entirely protest. When Varric let that horn go, his fingers slowly, suggestively slid down the length of it, back to cup the side of Bull’s face as he brought him in once again, to kiss him.

When they kissed it was like a flood, crushing, wet, unstoppable, it consumed Varric. He would pull away here and there, make Bull chase his lips, only to reward the chase with a nip or a chaste caress. He loved it, he loved the determination and the frustration. 

He tipped his head back and laughed a little, though it was a short-lived laugh. Bull’s fingers were tugging at the ties that held his breeches closed. 

It was going to be a long night, not that either of them minded.


	7. Letters to No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric has been at his desk for far too long. Bull comes to bring him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't know this about me I find the relationship between Anders and Varric to be incredibly important and if you dont agree we cant be friends ok.
> 
> Anyway, this was just something that was nagging at me so I wrote it.

His fingers hurt in this cold. His joints felt hot, tight, stiff, and he trembled as he gripped his quill. The candle beside him was consumed to the last inches, wax had melted in melancholic cascades, gathering like a mountain on his desk.

The letter in front of him was half finished, but he wondered if he’d ever be able to send it. He had his own ravens, his own ways, but the risk—  _it’s too great. He’ll be found._

The strain wore on him, he’d been here for hours, listening to people come and go, burning the midnight oil, so to speak. No one dared bother him when he was like this.

Well… Almost no one.

For a qunari, Bull was always light on his feet. His footsteps were quiet, the only sound was the swish of the fabric around his legs. When Varric looked up, he saw that Bull was not wearing his usual leather. His feet were bare on the stone floor, and he looked tired, but he didn’t seem weaker for it. Not that he ever did.

"Your candlelight shines across the courtyard. Will you keep at this all night, or can I tempt you to step away?" there’s warmth, as always. Bull is a steadfast sun-warmed rock that Varric could lie across. He could soak up that warmth like a spoiled house cat, but he held himself back. 

The attempt at a smile was so weak, he couldn’t keep it up for more than a few moments. He felt it falter, and saw Bull’s eye, sharp, quick to asses, notice it.

"What’s troubling you?"

Bull moved closer and Varric set down his quill, his first instinct being to shuffle the papers away, out of sight, hide his shame, but this was Bull. Bull wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t full of wrath, like Cassandra or suspicion like Leliana. He wasn’t wary like Cullen or aloof like Dorian. He wasn’t proud like Lavellan or distant like Blackwall.

_This was Bull_.

"Have you ever loved a friend, even after they’ve done something unforgivable?" Varric rubbed his temples, the leather of his gloves pressing against his skin. It was cold to the touch. His fingers were frigid, even within the leather. 

Too much writing for too long. 

Bull took his hands and drew them away, guiding Varric up from his seat. 

"Not exactly, but I can try to understand. Come to bed, explain it to me," Bull was firm, there was a stoicism in his face that reminded Varric of the Qun, of its teachings, of balance. Varric needed a bit of balance right then. He drew one hand away and lifted his letter to the candle’s flame and let it catch fire. He dropped it to the stone floor and watched it curl and disappear into ash.

Bull leaned over him and blew the candle out.


End file.
